Let’s talk about Ivan Provorov’s ol’ time religion and a God-awful lesson to learn

Now that the thunder-clap clatter has eased to a murmur, what are the lessons learned from L’Affaire Rainbow?

Well, we learned that the Philadelphia Flyers stand by their Russian Orthodox employees, because rearguard Ivan Provorov received not so much as a mild tsk-tsk for skipping out on a pregame warmup last Tuesday night.

While his playmates adorned themselves in rainbow-colored garments and wrapped the blades of their hockey sticks in rainbow-colored tape to signal support for the LGBT(etc.) community on Pride Night, Provorov remained in the Flyers changing room, alone in his gay-is-sin thoughts as his playmates participated in the 15-minute frolic.

Provorov later cited his old-time religion as the reason for his refusal to play Mr. Dressup, telling news snoops: “I respect everybody, I respect everybody’s choices. My choice is to stay true to myself and my religion.”

Oddly enough (but probably not surprising), the Russian Orthodox rearguard refused to elaborate on his choice of religion over rainbow, perhaps because further discussion might have been a bit dodgy, if not prickly. News snoops might have asked Provorov about Patriarch Kirill of Moscow and All Rus’, a man who believes a) his buddy Vlad (The Bad) Putin is a “miracle of God,” b) the Russian invasion of Ukraine is necessary to prevent an eastern-advancing scourge of gay Pride parades, and c) same-sex marriage is “a sin” and similar to “apartheid in Africa or Nazi laws.” Apparently, those are talking points Provorov would rather avoid.

Whatever, his true-to-religion soundbite was sufficient for Philly head coach, John Tortorella (“Provy did nothing wrong”), the organization (“The Flyers will continue to be strong advocates for inclusivity”) and the National Hockey League (“Players are free to decide which initiatives to support”). In other words, nothing to see here, kids.

So that’s another lesson learned: If an NHL player wishes to opt out of a team theme night (Pride, Military, Black Lives Matter, Indigenous, etc.), he need only dust off religious dogma to avoid the sin bin, and we have to assume that’s all-inclusive, meaning it’s an easy out available not only to Russian Orthodox but also Catholics, Protestants, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus, etc. (I suppose an atheist would have to come up with a different angle, but I don’t know.)

L’Affaire Rainbow also reminded us that news snoops are quick to rally and kick up a mighty fuss, yet they’re just as lickety-split in finding a new toy to chew on.

I mean, opinionists hither and yon spent three days in full and loud yowl, most of them pooh-poohing Provorov and suggesting an appropriate level of punishment, like deportation to the bosom of Mother Russia or listening to Barry Manilow music 24/7. I swear, we haven’t heard the jock journo machine rage like this since two of its heroes, Bobby Orr and Jack Nicklaus, pledged unwavering devotion to Donald Trump.

Yet, today, mention of Provorov’s work clothing is scant and has been pushed to the back pages of sports sections and the back half of news programs.

But here’s what the scribes and talking heads are ignoring: How many Ivan Provorovs are in the NHL? One per team? Two? Five? Surely he isn’t a lone wolf.

The jock journos decline to pursue the issue for one basic reason: They aren’t gay. Thus they can’t relate and don’t care. They’ve delivered a good and proper bawling out to Provorov, positioning themselves as LGBT(etc.) allies, so they harbor no compulsion for a deep dive into the matter.

Similarly, NHL Commissioner Gary Bettman wants no portion of any anti-gay discussion, unless it provides him an opportunity to apply a coating of sugar.

“When you look at all of our players and the commitments that they’ve made to social causes and to making our game welcoming and inclusive, let’s focus on the 700 that embrace it and not one or two that may have some issues for their own personal reasons,” he told news snoops the other day.

Sure, Gary, and let’s focus on all the banks Bonnie and Clyde didn’t rob.

Perhaps some reminders would be appropriate right about now…

• In January 2014, TSN ran a three-part documentary, RE/ORIENTATION, which attempted to pry the lid off the issue of gays in hockey.

“We struggled to get participation from players,” said series host Aaron Ward, a former NHL defenceman and TSN talking head. “Over a nine-month period, we reached out to 12 different National Hockey League teams. (We) could not get co-operation. It was a struggle to get guys to sit down and be comfortable and honest in front of a camera. Obviously, it’s easy to sit down and read words for a PSA, but it’s another thing to sit down and be honest and in-depth and be clear about how we feel about this process and this issue. It’s almost a barometer of where we are today.”

Nine months. Twelve teams. That’s more than 200 players. And only three—Andrew Ference, Ben Scrivens and Dustin Brown—agreed to a formal, on-the-record natter. None of the three are in the NHL today.

• Last month, Hockey Canada revealed results of a study into incidents of on-ice discrimination across all levels and age groups during the 2021-22 season. There were 512 penalties called, 61 per cent involving sexual orientation or gender. Males accounted for 99 per cent of the fouls.

Some of those male shinny scofflaws might grow up to perform in the NHL, which, with its shoulder shrug in L’Affaire Rainbow, has given players the official okey-dokey to go rogue and show the LGBT(etc.) collective, or any marginalized group of their choice, the cold shoulder. They can be just like Ivan Provorov. All they need do is flash a rosary or spew the Lord’s Prayer, then wait out the brief media storm.

What a God-awful lesson to learn.

Ron MacLean might be milquetoast, but I don’t believe him to be homophobic

About half an hour after I rose from my roost at 2 o’clock on Wednesday morning, I noticed both Ron MacLean and Don Cherry trending on Twitter.

“What is it now?” I thought. “Are Frick and Frack talking about poppies and ‘you people’ again?”

Turns out it wasn’t about poppies, ‘you people’ or Canada’s milk and honey, delicate topics that led to the ouster of Cherry and his living-room-drapes wardrobe from Hockey Night in Canada in November 2019.

This time it was something MacLean said. Something stupid.

Ron MacLean

Now, someone saying something stupid on HNIC is not to be placed in the breaking-fresh-ground file, because there exists a boat load of panelists who natter with studio host MacLean on a near-nightly basis during the Stanley Cup tournament, and any time there are that many squawk boxes sardine-canned together you can bet your thesaurus that tongues will be tripped over.

Cherry once monopolized that market, using his Coach’s Corner bully pulpit and butchered English to pontificate on matters that branched far, far away from the hockey rink and led him into the quicksands of sexism, misogyny, zenophobia, homophobia, pinkoism, etc.

During his almost 40 years as the Lord of Loud on HNIC, Cherry got up more noses than a COVID swab stick.

All the while, MacLean played Tonto to the star of the show’s Lone Ranger, but he wasn’t seen as a faithful companion at the end, when Cherry went off on “you people” who arrive on Canadian shores for “our milk and honey” but refuse to wear poppies in salute of fallen war heroes who are lying in graves in Europe or only made it back home in pine boxes. That was his Waterloo. MacLean, looking every inch the stooge, closed the Cherry rant by muttering, “Love ya for it” with a right thumb up.

Many among the rabble remain convinced that Cherry can tell us what the underside of a bus looks like only because that’s where MacLean left him, if not tossed him, thus he should have been unplugged at the same time.

Accurate or not, the perception of MacLean as a Benedict Arnold is their reality and it grates like nails on a chalkboard as MacLean is permitted to prattle on.

Don Cherry

Unlike his former running mate, MacLean seldom bludgeons the language, often leaning on utterances from historical figures to prop up a point. (I believe it’s also his idea of a subtle boast, letting viewers know he has spent time in a library.) But he’s also a pun meister. He harbors an unhealthy inclination toward spewing groan-worthy puns that often leave viewers wondering what the hell he’s talking about.

And, really, what was Pun Boy prattling on about during the second intermission of Game 4 of a National Hockey League playoff skirmish between the Toronto Maple Leafs-Montreal Canadiens on Tuesday night? He mentioned “tarp-off” men testing “positive” for something or other.

“You have a photo of a guy with his tarp off, you’re definitely positive for something,” MacLean said in a kibitzing tone to panelist Kevin Bieksa.

On first blush, that sound bite came off as shockingly homophobic. Was he actually talking about bare-chested men testing positive? Gay men, condoms and AIDS leapt to mind, perhaps because I have HIV+ friends. Great yelps of homophobia rang out on social media, loud and long into the night and the following day after MacLean had issued a quasi-mea culpa/explanation.

“Early in the show, we had a fun moment featuring a photograph of our colleague Anthony Stewart enjoying a rum party,” he tweeted on Wednesday afternoon. “That photo, along with a few others, sat on the shelf of Kevin Bieksa’s set for the remainder of the night. In the second intermission, when Kevin quipped that he was ‘the most positive person on our panel,’ I directed viewers to that photo, using ‘tarp off’ (i.e. shirtless) to specify the picture with the rum bottle, and quipped, ‘You’ll be testing positive for something.’ I meant the rum.”

Sounds wishy-washy, to the point of being fiction.

A tarp-off Bobby Hull.

I mean, really? It was about rum? Sorry. Show someone a pic of a half-naked NHL player and it’s unlikely their eyeballs will focus on the bottle of booze he’s holding. There is, for example, a famous photo of a young, strapping, tarp-off Bobby Hull working on the farm, and the bale of hay on the business end of his pitch fork isn’t the first thing you notice.

I don’t pretend to know Ron MacLean. I met him on a few occasions in the distant past when our paths would intersect while covering NHL events, but we never broke bread or tipped pints together. Like most others, I watched and listened to him on HNIC and saw a man who would rather eat the stew than stir the pot. Over the years, he has become increasingly milquetoast due to a strong need to be liked, and it’s entirely possible that his best-before date has come and gone.

But sometimes what we hear isn’t what was said, and I’m not convinced MacLean’s remark about tarp-off men and testing positive aligns with homophobia. Many in the LGBT(etc.) collective believe it does. I get that. As mentioned, my initial impulse leaned toward heaping scorn on him.

His comment was stupid, total frat-boy banter, even as Jennifer Botterill sat and winced across the studio table from him, and it created a dreadful optic of gays and AIDS.

Upon further review, however, MacLean is just another guy in hockey who’s made a dumb-ass comment, but that doesn’t make him homophobic.

Meghan Duggan the latest ray of sunlight in the dawning of a new day for the NHL

The New Jersey Devils’ freshly minted manager of player development is gay.

Openly gay.

And married.

And the openly gay married couple have a son.

Gillian Apps, Meghan Dugann and baby George.

This appears to be the new National Hockey League, even if certain of the on-ice activity we’ve witnessed in the current Stanley Cup tournament remains rather primitive, whereby a set of hairy knuckles formed into a fist continues to be thought of, also used, as a tool with merit.

The aforementioned Devils failed to qualify as participants in the post-season runoff, a spring ritual that will drag us into summer this time around, but although looking in with their noses pressed against the window they have provided us with another clear signal that the NHL has advanced beyond the Stone Age and embraces its place in the 21st century, the sometimes barbaric activity on its frozen ponds notwithstanding.

The Devils did this with the appointment of Meghan Duggan as manager of player development on Wednesday.

Meghan Duggan and Gillian Apps.

Meghan certainly brings a glittering array of bona fides to her portfolio: Seven-time world champion, Olympic champion, captain of the U.S. women’s national team, winner of the Patty Kazmaier Award as the nation’s foremost female collegiate player, Canadian Women’s Hockey League champion, college coach, etc.

But it’s in the area of social progress that the New Jersey franchise struck the most-sonorous note.

Duggan, you see, is married to Gillian Apps, a one-time fierce foe with the Canadian national women’s hockey team, and baby made three in February 2020 when the two women welcomed their son, George Apps-Duggan, into the world.

If we know anything at all about the NHL, it’s that openly gay people are more rare than a full set of teeth.

Manon Rheaume

You can count the number of gay players on the fingers of…oh, wait…no gay NHL skater has ever come out, past or present. There have been more confirmed sightings of Sasquatch. Hell, a woman has participated in a game, and never mind that it was the carnival barker in Phil Esposito that arranged for Manon Rheaume to occupy the blue paint for Tampa Bay Lightning in a 1992 exhibition exercise.

She might have been Espo’s idea of Sideshow Bobbi, but the reality is more women have appeared in an NHL game than openly gay men.

Yet as much as the pungency of homophobia continues to linger at the upper crust of men’s hockey like the inside of bowling shoes, a fresh breeze of diversity is drifting through the front offices of numerous franchises.

Duggan joins an organization that already includes Kate Madigan as executive director of hockey management/operations, and the expansion Seattle Kraken recruited American legend Cammi Granato as a pro scout in September 2019. The Chicago Blackhawks brought Kendall Coyne Schofield on board as a player development coach last November, and the Toronto Maple Leafs bumped Dr. Hayley Wickenheiser up the food chain this week, promoting her to the position of senior director of player development. Her first order of business as boss lady was to bring former teammate Danielle Goyette into the fold. Like Granato, both Doc Wick and Goyette are ring-bearing members of the Hockey Hall of Fame.

Christine Simpson, Cassie Campbell-Pascall and Leah Hextall.

Meanwhile, in the blurt box, female voices are being heard at an increasing volume. ESPN plans to put Leah Hextall behind a play-by-play mic on its NHL coverage next season, and she joins a widening chorus that includes Kate Scott, AJ Mleczko, Jennifer Botterill, Christine Simpson, Cassie Campbell-Pascall and Cheryl Pounder.

But it’s perhaps the Duggan hiring that carries the greatest resonance, because her sexual orientation makes it barrier-breaking and serves as a point of progress for those of us in the LGBT(etc.) collective.

“It’s a huge part of my life and who I am, and it’s incredibly important to me to represent a variety of different communities,” Meghan told Matt Larkin of The Hockey News. “It’s certainly a responsibility, but it’s a privilege at the same time. In regards to being a woman, being a working mom, being a member of the LGBTQ+ community, representation matters. For a lot of my life, I have been doing inclusion work, trying to make hockey more inclusive and diverse and to bring a variety of different personalities and backgrounds into the fold. For the Devils to welcome me into the fold, it shows that’s important to them as well. That speaks volumes to the culture aspect of the Devils and what they value.”

Yes, a new day has dawned in the NHL, even if some on the ice continue to bare their hairy knuckles and balk at joining the rest of us in the 21st century.

Caitlyn Jenner is back, like a fresh batch of hemorrhoids

So there I was in 2015, sitting in Bart’s Pub across a table from my dear friend Bruce and, without prodding, he offered a high hosanna to one of the most ballyhooed people on our Big Blue Orb.

“Caitlyn Jenner rocks,” Bruce said.

At the time, Jenner had recently appeared as a newly minted, very air-brushed transgender female on the cover of Vanity Fair, and her soon-to-be-doomed self-opus, I Am Cait, was a recent arrival to our flatscreens, airing on E! Channel.

I winced and scoffed.

“Nobody will be talking about Caitlyn Jenner two years from now,” I told Bruce.

Sure enough, the Homage to Herself became a ratings Hindenburg, with I Am Cait plummeting from 2.7 million sets of eyeballs at the outset to less than 500,000 by the time someone at E! Channel had the good sense to mercifully pull the plug on the 10-months, two-seasons run.

There was no mystery why viewers tuned her out: The High Priestess in the Cult of Cait was utterly unlikable.

Although vowing to “reshape the landscape” and “change the world,” Kitty Cait was a rude, abrasive, aggressive, interruptive, cruel and power-addictive attention hog. She had the warm-and-fuzzy qualities of a desert cactus plant, and was hopelessly ill-informed on transgender reality.

Kitty Cait spent the majority of her time flouncing about the United States—Road trip, girls!—with her faithful flock of fawning followers, and when she and the Trans Troop weren’t toodling around on dirt bikes, drinking wine, roller skating, drinking wine, swimming, drinking more wine, and kissing Boy George’s ring finger, Kitty Cait could be found cooing over Candis Cayne or in a clothes closet the size of Manhattan, fretting over what to wear for a sleepover at Candis’ abode. Or she might have been bragging about the cost of her store-bought, trophy tits.

“What a responsibility I have towards this community. Am I going to do everything right? Am I going to say the right things? Do I project the right image? My mind is just spinning with thoughts. I just hope I get it right…I hope I get it right…ya,” the transgender diva said with much theatrical emphasis in Episode 1, Season 1.

In another episode, she insisted on using her dead name, Bruce, in order to curry favor with a fancy-schmancy Los Angeles golf club. So, she was a she unless being a she prevented her from sharing oxygen with the beautiful people, in which case she would revert to being good, ol’ Bruce Jenner, Olympic champion. Such a pesky inconvenience.

All the while, I would watch and cringe, wondering to myself, “Do people think all transgender women are such total ditzes and mean-spirited bitches?”

But, like her self-opus, Jenner vanished from our consciousness, unless we happened to glance at the cover of one of the trash/gossip mags in the supermarket checkout line and learn that another of the Jenner/Kardashian brood had abandoned her.

Alas, Caitlyn is back, like a fresh batch of hemorrhoids, and she wants to govern all the good people of California.

One presumes that includes transgender girls, although Governor Wannabe doesn’t want to see them running, jumping, throwing, skipping rope or playing rock-scissors-paper with “real” females. Under a Caitlyn Jenner administration, trans girls in the Golden State would be expected to stay in their own special lane, which would reduce them to non-female lesser-thans.

We know this to be true because a TMZ snoop caught up with Governor Wannabe during a Saturday morning coffee run, and he probed her brain pan for nuggets of insight.

“This is a question of fairness, that’s why I oppose biological boys who are trans competing in girls sports in school,” Jenner said while shooing her black lab into the back seat of an SUV. “It just isn’t fair, and we have to protect girls sports in our schools.”

The temptation is to suggest that if transgender girls are still “biological boys” then it surely follows that the transgender Caitlyn Jenner is still the biological Bruce Jenner, no matter how pricey the store-bought boobs, the extensive face-sculpting and whatever other slicing and dicing has been performed on the former Olympic champion’s body.

But we don’t want to go there because it would be insulting, improper and incorrect.

Suffice to say, Jenner’s take on transgender girls in sports is deeply disturbing, demeaning and hurtful, but not at all surprising given her odious behavior and dreadful talking points on I Am Cait.

I suppose it might win her some votes and friends among Republicans in the California gubernatorial race—Piers Morgan has already given her sound bite his official okie-dokie—but stepping on the little people is one sad way of going about your business.

I’d say Jenner has betrayed the transgender community, except I don’t believe she has ever truly been part of it.

I’ve got two words for Paparazzi Nightclub ownership/management: Thank you

The candle is in full flicker as a fierce wind whistles a menacing tune and whips wickedly against windows that are most often open but are now tightly shuttered, shielding me from an unexpected and unwelcomed bite of Mother Nature’s late-March madness.

It feels very much like a day meant for the indoors, alone with my slightly parched muse, a movie and perhaps a bowl of chicken noodle soup.

But it is only 3:30 a.m., hours in advance of Sol’s rise and too early for conviction and certainty. Thus, the possibility remains that this day of non-toil shall include the doing of outdoor deeds, after which some free-spirited frolic might be enjoyed.

In the meantime, as the candle supplies the sole light in the prevailing darkness of night, my thoughts drift in the direction of three people and one place.

Attila, Terry and Helina are very special people in my life. The business they own and operate has been a very special place in my life. I would not be the person I am today if not for them and their Paparazzi Show/Nightclub. It is a debt I cannot possibly repay, although I try in many and varied ways.

These are good people. Kind people. Giving people. They have provided Victoria’s LGBT community with a safe space for eight-plus years, at considerable cost, both monetarily and emotionally. They continue to do so during the most-testing of times, and it’s impossible to place a price tag on the value of a comfortable, secure sanctuary for the gay collective.

So why do I feel that the community has abandoned them?

I paid a visit to Paparazzi on Friday afternoon. It was a few ticks in advance of 2 o’clock and the big doors on Broad Street were bolted shut. Inside, co-owner Terry Bex went about the business of prepping for the weekly beer delivery; CEO Helina Kinnersley scurried about, putting together the nightly floats, updating the website and assisting a small group of people setting the stage for a fetish show; two delivery men arrived and departed.

I sat at the bar, nursing a pint, and wondering: Where have all the flowers gone?

I refer to the afternoon crowd at Paparazzi (nee B.J.’s and Prism Lounge), which once upon a time was a vibrant, feel-good gathering of gay men and lesbians who genuinely enjoyed each other. Over time, however, girls became an endangered species in the afternoon. Then extinct. I believe I was the last one standing. I have often wondered where all the girls went. Why they went.

I once posed this question to co-owner Bex: “Why do you think women have stopped coming here in the afternoon?”

He could not provide a concrete answer. He could only speculate.

I don’t have to speculate. I can tell you exactly why my time in the basement became reduced to one or two visits per week (at the most)—the male patrons. Not all of them. But enough of them.

Let’s be clear on something: I met all of my dearest male friends during afternoon sessions at Paparazzi. I cherish those friendships. Always will. So Cullen and Vernon and Brian and Sean and Bruce and Gordon and Bill didn’t chase me away. More to the point, they were the reason I would return for more. We shared many, many laughs. They granted me strength and courage during my transition years, and do so to this day.

As for other male patrons…the less said, the better, unless you want to talk about a brotherhood of bitching, backstabbing and betrayal. And a false sense of entitlement.

So now there is no afternoon crowd. Paparazzi no longer is a comfortable, post-work day retreat. It is strictly a night time operation, unbolting the doors on Broad Street at 7 o’clock, seven nights a week. This isn’t what Attila Bassett and Terry Bex envisioned when they assumed stewardship of the club in February 2007, but it has become their new reality. We have arrived at the end of a once-lovely era.

Will they ever open the doors in the afternoon again? Perhaps.

If not, Attila, Terry and Helina should know that some of us who walk and talk under the LGBT banner feel indebted to them. That we are grateful for their time and devotion to the gay collective. And that it’s through no fault of theirs that the afternoon crowd dwindled to a few prune-faced patrons.

The terrific trio continues to fight the good fight in a time when gay clubs are disappearing faster than summer wages, and I have no doubt their night business shall thrive.

In the meantime, here are two words for them from an eight-year afternoon attendee whose personal schedule does not grant allowance for night time frolic: Thank you.

Manitoba Sportswriters & Sportscasters Association: Making a bold statement for diversity, equality and acceptance

So, my friend George and I are engaged in a chin-wag. He is a low talker and I often must strain, or ask him to repeat himself, in order to receive the full weight of his words, which usually originate from a base of knowledge and wisdom.

“I’ll be inducted into the Manitoba Sportswriters & Sportscasters Association hall of fame next month,” I advise him.

George lights up.

“That’s wonderful,” he says sincerely (and I can actually hear him without leaning forward). “But, Patti, this isn’t about you.”

I pause for ponder. What’s this “not about me” nonsense? The hell it isn’t about me. It’s all about me. I’ve been waiting for this to happen since the turn of the century. I was feeling like Susan Lucci. She was nominated 18 times before finally winning a daytime Emmy Award, and I’d already received 15 snubs from the MSSA since my escape from mainstream jock journalism in 1999. I went to extremes in my quest to attract their attention. I mean, if I was going to feel like Susan Lucci, I figured I might as well look like her, too. So I had M-to-F gender reassignment surgery in 2009. Still nothing. The MSSA didn’t like me pre- or post-op, and I’d officially run out of genders.

“Geez,” I asked myself, “what does a girl have to do to get noticed around here?”

Well, they finally did notice and now George is telling me that being inducted into the MSSA Roll of Honour isn’t about me?

Truth is, he’s correct. It isn’t about me. It’s about diversity, equality and acceptance. It’s about the MSSA becoming the first mainstream sports organization that I know of in Canada to honor a transgender female in such a manner, and I’m not sure they appreciate the significance their deed carries in the gay community.

Mainstream jock journalism, understand, is very much a good, ol’ boys bit of business. In my 30 years writing for five newspapers, I worked with just four female scribes—Peggy Stewart, Rita Mingo (Winnipeg Tribune), Mary Ormsby (Toronto Sun) and Judy Owen (Winnipeg Sun). All my other colleagues were male, 99.9 per cent of them white and 100 per cent of them confirmed heterosexuals.

Talk about a closed clubhouse.

It’s true, though. I never worked with an openly gay sports writer. Either gender. More to the point, I’ve never known an openly gay sports scribe in Canada. I suspect a lesbian would be accepted into the clubhouse more readily than a gay guy, but to my knowledge that girl has yet to come out.

Yet now we have the MSSA embracing a transgender female, voting for her induction into its Roll of Honour.

Should that be important? You’d like to think not in the 21^st century, but it is. I mean, transgender individuals still seek the same federal human rights protections as gay men, lesbians and other minorities vis-a-vis hate crimes and discrimination. Bill C-279, which would enable equal protection for transgender men, women and children, has been sitting in the Canadian Senate for more than a year and a half because some of our so-called leaders still have great difficulty with equality for the transgender.

So, what the MSSA has done is large and resonates in the gay collective. Since I posted news of this development on Facebook, more than 70 lesbians (total strangers, save for one) have commented. Here’s a sampling:

“Congratulations! That is a huge step forward for women and lesbians in this country…perhaps the world!”

“Congratulations, Patti Dawn Swansson! You’re making history, being the first lesbian awarded this honour, and continuing a (short) tradition of women receiving this recognition. HOORAY!! *throws biodegradable confetti*”

“Wow Patti!! Thats huge news!!! My Hat is off to you!!”

“Your accomplishment is inspiring to hear and impressive. Congratulations!”

So, you see, my friend George was right. It isn’t about me. It’s about these women and all others in the gay collective. We are proud of the members of the MSSA, we applaud them and we thank them.

Is it possible to be a homophobic homosexual?

I have been called many unflattering things in this lifetime. Bitch is the first one that comes to mind. I’ve also had a couple of people drop the C-bomb on me when I was the weekend cover girl at a gay bar.

But homophobic?

I suppose I should be offended at such a slur. I mean, I’m homophobic like the Pope is an atheist. I am, however, not offended. I’m puzzled.

I am a girl who likes girls. I believe that qualifies me as homosexual. I have 24 Facebook friends, 16 of whom are gay. Two gay men have been signing my pay cheques for the past six years. I have won an award for my writing about the LGBT community. I did volunteer work at a gay-owned and operated boutique. I have counselled transgender youth. I have done promotional work for Paparazzi Nightclub, which is recognized as a gay venue in Victoria. I have written three gay-themed books and I am working on a fourth.

So, how is it possible that I am homophobic?

Well, the very notion that I am homophobic is a misguided bit of blarney, of course, yet, at the same time, I must be homophobic because someone perceives me to be homophobic and perception is reality.

I can assure you that I’m quite comfortable in my rapidly wrinkling skin, so I won’t get my knickers in a knot because I am accused of homophobia, nor do I feel an urgent requirement to present a vigorous defence. Were I to rage against this charge, it would open a window to a second accusation—thou doth protest too much.

Thus, rather than a rousing rant, I am given pause to ponder. Is it possible, I wonder, for a gay person to be homophobic?

I know gay men who are offended if another gay man speaks and acts “too gay.” That these “too gay” men propagate the notion that all gay men are limp-wristed, lisping divas. I know gay women who are put off by other gay women because they “aren’t butch enough.” That they’re too femme. It’s as if lipstick lesbians are lepers.

In the minds of some gay men, I have two strikes against me. I am transgender and I am a female who likes females. So, they would rather that I not share their oxygen.

For example, a few months ago I was the sole patron in Paparazzi. A gay man of my acquaintance walked in and asked if he could join me. Of course. We engaged in a rather pleasant tete-a-tete for approximately 10 minutes, then he lost the plot.

“I wish this bar was for gay men only,” he said.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“I wish this bar was for gay men only.”

“So, you’re saying you don’t want me in here. That I shouldn’t be allowed in here.”

“That’s right. I would prefer it that way.”

This, I hasten to emphasize, was not a one-off. It’s happened on numerous occasions. Is this not homophobia by homosexual? Or do we call it lesphobia? Or transphobia?

By any term, it is homophobic.

I mean, if some lout in a mainstream bar stands up and announces that “gays aren’t welcome here,” he’s immediately branded a homophobe. Does it not follow that a gay man doing the same is homophobic?

I like to think of the gay collective as the vegetables in the garden. There is a row of peas, a row of carrots, a row of green beans, a row of lettuce, a row of onions. Each has its own identity. Yet, once tossed into the salad bowl, the vegetables are as one and they do not reject the boiled egg that joins them.

Why, then, do we reject another within the LGBT community?

Pride Week 2014 is upon us in Victoria, and I find it most discomforting that homosexual homophobes walk among us. We’re all in this thing together, people. We should act like it.